Fear of Chocolate

A few days ago the L.A. Burdick chocolate catalog arrived. Evidently, they are still cherishing the hope that B and I will order a tiny wooden crate of nine chocolate penguins ($27) from them, even though we haven’t done such a thing for approximately seven years. We are about as likely to order chocolate from them as we are to knit ourselves a new car. Reason 1: We have snobby chocolate right here in Portland, so why would we order it from New Hampshire and pay big bucks to have it shipped to us nestled in a pouch of dry ice? Reason 2: Lately I have not been able to eat chocolate without going into a jittery frenzy that keeps my ass pasted to my computer chair until about 1:00 AM.


For example, a couple of weeks ago, I ordered a chocolate pot de creme at a coffee house. It was served in a demitasse, and I ate less than half of it. I was nerved up for hours, whizzing upstairs and downstairs but accomplishing nothing. I finally had to self-medicate by eating half of a freakishly large acorn squash, which fortunately restored my equilibrium.

This is disturbing. I noted similar, although not quite so pronounced, effects when I ate a brownie a couple of days ago. I have to be afraid of eating chocolate now? It’s not like I’m a big-time chocoholic or anything. I don’t have a Katharine Hepburn-style habit that requires me to eat a pound of chocolates every day just to survive. But I would like to be able to eat the occasional chocolatey treat without feeling like I’ve been electrocuted.